It was midnight. The squire’s horse, tethered in the wood across the lane, champed upon its bit. Outside the Franklin’s dwelling the squire crouched behind a briar bush, gazing at Alice’s window thirty feet up. Not a star shone; the moon was overcast with dark clouds. A single bat flew erratically by; the frogs croaked harshly from the pool in the old moat. The darkness was laden with heavy mist that condensed in drops upon Philip’s cloak. As he gazed at the window a sudden chill seized him; he shivered slightly. He looked for some faint light; there was none. He listened; there was no sound. All was silent as a grave. At length he gave three long low whistles. An owl hooted from the orchard, but there came no other reply. He thought he heard a sound from Alice’s window, but no, he was mistaken. Silence--still silence. An hour passed away. There was no sign of any kind from the window. Another hour passed away, and another. The moon sickened behind the clouds, the eastern sky lightened, an opal light burned on the horizon, the air grew grey and the cocks began to answer each other from the roosts. Philip’s face was set hard and white. He rose to his feet, shaking the water from his cloak. He gazed up at the window and in a sudden paroxysm of rage shook his fist at its dark vacuity. With a bitter curse on his lips he flung away into the semi-darkness of the breaking morning. IV There was much ado in the Franklin’s house. The Franklin had been to London and brought thither rich gowns, bright ribbons, gorgeous sashes, brocades, velvets and damasks, and much rich work of the goldsmiths. Spices and delicious meats filled his larders, the good wife was busied all day at her preserves, and a notable cook had been engaged to prepare the viands for the nuptial banquet. In the oak parlour Robert the German undid his pack and displayed the choice laces of Bruges and Mechlin. The Franklin, his wife and daughter, fingered them over with exclamations of admiration, the merchant naming the price of each article. ‘Eh, but this is bonny,’ cried Alice, holding up a lace kerchief to the light of the little window. As she did so the sunlight streamed upon her face and plainly revealed a small livid spot, about the size of a groat, upon her right cheek. ‘Lo,’ cried her mother, catching sight of it. ‘The wench is spotted; ‘twill never do for her to go to church speckled like a trout.’ ‘Nay, it is nothing,’ said Alice. ‘By the Virgin,’ cried her father, ‘thou shalt be bonny the bridal, be thou ugly for ever after,’ and calling to a servant, he sent to bid the Leech come. The Leech was a cunning man in diseases and in all manner of simples. ‘Give her a draught for a good complexion, Master Doctor,’ cried the Franklin. ‘Let her be clear-skinned against the wedding,’ said her mother. But the Leech grew solemn as he examined the girl’s face. ‘Is it aught but a skin scratch, Master Doctor?’ asked her father.